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Affairs of Wizards, The
By Anonymous Author

***

Never ever play games with a Wizard, because he might 
just paly games back at you. (MF, mc, magic, preg)

***

Author Note: Everything in this story is fictional, 
except for the way that magic works. Since some of the 
wizards on the Net are not entirely sane, I am not 
taking the risk of publicizing my True Name.

"He's a wizard, of course he can. Don't meddle with 
wizards."

"I still bet he can't!"

"Oh, go on in then, see if he notices. I'll come in if 
there's any trouble."

Ania knocked gently on the door as she had been trained 
to, and then pushed it open, entering a large room with 
a view of the sunset, across the bay. On the 
comfortable hotel chaise-lounge was a man of early 
middle age, reading The Journal of Thaumaturgical 
Topology in a plain house-robe of silk and cotton, with 
no magical symbols on it that she could see. He glanced 
up, smiled pleasantly, and waved vaguely at the low 
table beside him, where she put down her tray with its 
jug of Northern wine and some crisp rolls.

"Will there be anything else, sir?"

Still silent, he shook his head, and she noticed again 
how his bronze hair was turning white where it curled 
against his ears. The stiff green cotton of her uniform 
rubbed against her upper legs, as she bobbed 
respectfully and turned toward the door.

As she reached the door she stopped, and turned around.

If he *could*, he wasn't saying anything. He didn't 
*seem* to know.

He looked up at her, and smiled again. "Yes?"

She absolutely shouldn't, there could be trouble, but 
Birgit would surely claim he knew, and she suddenly 
trusted his smile.

"Sir, *can* you tell?"

His eyebrows, which curled upward like rusty wire 
against his golden skin, arched a little and his smile 
became wider.

"Can I tell what, Ania?"

He knew her name! But wizards always know names, you 
learn that at school. It didn't answer her question.

"Can you tell... about me..." he was still smiling, 
"can you tell if I'm wearing panties?"

He blinked, and somehow his smile became deeper around 
the eyes.

"Do you mean, *do I know* if you are," he said, "or 
*can I tell*?"

She looked at him, a little confused.

"There are many ways I *can* tell, if invited," he 
said, "as anyone could, but I think you mean, can I 
tell by some use of magic, as you stand there," she 
nodded, "and you want to know if I *have* used it."

"I thought it would be just like... seeing," she said, 
"you'd simply know."

"One way, yes, is like *looking*, and so seeing. But 
even a prentice does not use magic without will, and a 
man who would use it as a casual intrusion is not even 
a prentice for long. I *can* tell, but I have not. Do 
you believe me, Ania?"

"I *believe* you, sir," wondering if she really did, "I 
believe you can, and I believe you haven't, but I do 
not *know*."

"I have always admired Doubting Thomas," he said, 
clearly enjoying her answer, "`Trust but verify' is the 
foundation of modern magic. Am I being asked for 
proof?"

"Sir, yes."

"For proof that I have not? That would be hard." She 
shook her head.

"You are asking me, then, to show you that I *can*?"

Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded.

"I may choose my method?"

"Y-yes."

He looked more closely at her, and she wondered how 
much of a spell was needed. The touch of her dress was 
intensely present, close to her skin and yet creating a 
hollow space within which she stood, under his gaze.

Around her neck, she felt a softening, a cool feeling 
that was like water, but was not wet. It spread around 
her body like a quiet wave.

"Now, I can tell," he said.

Following his glance to the tall mirror beside her, she 
stood still, and looked at herself. She was now dressed 
in silk; the simplicity of her uniform had become the 
perfect simplicity of the dress of a great lady, and 
its plain green had changed while hardly changing, to 
something with depths like the autumn sea. There was no 
seam anywhere, only a line of coral buttons that ran 
from the neck, along each arm to the cuffs. It was 
shaped by its flow across her body, liquid against her 
skin.

No spell but the magic of silk made clear that under 
that flowing green, there was Ania. Nothing else.

She had always been friends with her small, muscular 
body, but seeing it like this, and sharing the sight 
with him, was different. This was not the practical 
object she washed briskly in cold water every morning, 
it was more like music. 

Her neat round belly was like a standing wave in a 
mountain stream, flowing over a stone, pouring into a 
rounded channel and frothing where the silk clung to 
the curls between her legs, welling up in a turbulent 
mound that somehow had more shape, more definiteness 
than she had ever noticed before. She wanted to cup it 
in her hand, to imagine the water filling and spilling 
against her fingers, she could almost feel the rush and 
tingle from inside; but putting her hand as if to cover 
herself... no. 

An inverted modesty kept her from snatching at her 
body, there or where her breasts, normally 
unobtrusive, gentle swellings that needed no special 
support and did little to push out her clothes, were 
suddenly sharply defined. Low on her ribs, but the 
nipples high, looking as emphatic as they unexpectedly 
felt; how had they become points of *drama* in 
something so undramatic as the body she lived and 
worked in every day?

"Magic," she said. "Have you put an illusion on my 
dress, to look like that? Have you put a glamour on 
*me*, to look like that? Or a glamour on my mind, to 
*think* I look like that? You could do all those things 
to someone who does have something underneath, I 
haven't said if *I* don't, and it would look the 
same." 

The idea of mind-magic was an uneasy one, but then the 
thought of such a glamour on the Manageress almost set 
her giggling; it took two of the maids, every morning, 
to get Madame Chorny into her corsets. The image was so 
naturally her own, and he looked so much less of an 
Evil Power than Madame Chorny on her best days, that 
she smiled at him, a quick secret grin like the one she 
gave when she had lured Birgit into some new plot 
against the sobriety of This Great Hotel. "Perhaps it 
is good that I do not have such powers. I could not be 
trusted with them."

"No illusion, no fairy gold," said the wizard. "That is 
real silk, now, as real as your skin. Your body looks 
like that because it is exactly that beautiful, and 
your mind, do you think I would hesitate to look under 
your clothes, and then intrude behind your eyes?"

"No, you wouldn't do that," she agreed. "So I really am 
like *this*, and your body is truly like *that*," 
considering his long legs and arms, the well cared for 
hands lying open on his robe, his golden skin. "And you 
*haven't* looked under my clothes."

"I am looking now, as any man might," he said, "as any 
man *would*."

"Then I believe you could look as a wizard, without 
showing me to others, but I do not *know*. Look at me, 
then. Look at me, wizard fashion." She turned to face 
him squarely, with a rustling of silk.

He looked down, as she tried to meet his eyes, and she 
realized he was looking closely at her feet, in the 
felt slippers This Great Hotel demanded in homage to 
its floors. She wiggled her toes, and his mouth 
quirked, but he did not look up. Slowly his attention 
moved, learning ankles, knees, thighs, between them, up 
the curve of her stomach to her breasts and arms, then 
the roundness of her lips, until he was studying her 
eyes. Green eyes, as she had often seen in the mirror, 
with dark lashes and brows. Were they beautiful, then, 
too? But he wasn't looking at beauty, he was looking at 
her, looking at her eyes, learning her.

She let out a breath as he leaned back on the chaise 
lounge.

"You have looked, now," she said.

"I have. I have looked, and I would know you across the 
Rio Amazonas, in sunlight or starlight, now or a 
hundred years from now. It is a wizard's craft to look, 
and to learn."

"I think you would," said Ania solemnly, "I am sure you 
looked at me with the eyes of a wizard. I am sure, but 
do I truly know," she could not resist it, "whether you 
saw my panties? *If* I am wearing panties?"

He roared with laughter. "Ania, you remind me of my 
mother's junior husband. If we are to settle this, we 
must share eyes a little. Is this well?"

She nodded again, a little uncertain.

"Now I am touching your mind, only a little, and not 
with illusion, just a link. It is easily made; the 
Talent sleeps in your own mind, too, but was not woken 
in childhood. Look in the mirror."

He came to stand beside her, more than a head taller, 
and they both looked at her small, smoothly clad 
reflection.

"A mirror is a kind of illusion," said the wizard, "but 
this is true seeing." He pointed at the neckline, and a 
handspan of green silk cleared to her eyes, the woven 
surface calming like the waves on a millpond when wind 
and watermill rest, letting her vision pass the surface 
to the riverbed, to the creamy coffee color of her 
throat. She had never looked at her throat as a shape, 
before. Her eyes moved, and his followed, for the clear 
patch spread to her left breast, then to her right. The 
nipples were so red, so red; was she seeing through the 
skin a little too, to the blood that filled them so 
tight that the skin on them seemed to pinch her with a 
kind of pain?

Downward, to her belly, the round, gentle boulder that 
made the green wave in the silent river of silk, clear 
through the still surface; the strange cup of her 
navel.

Downward again, to the firm mound where dark curls 
clustered, and all at once she smelled them, scented 
with herself from the lips, almost open, that they grew 
along. She had not known but, yes, that was their 
purpose, hair kept when human pelts went smooth, to 
carry the scents that speak clearer than words. Did the 
knowledge come from him?

When the whole dress was clear they stood looking, for 
a little, at her body's form beneath it. Then her 
glance shifted to the image of the man beside her, and 
the spell faded.

"These things are by invitation," he said, as she 
turned to look up at him. "We have had no discussion of 
*my* clothes. And to see more of yourself you would 
need to keep your balance while looking from behind, 
which is a slow-learned skill. Now, my small disputant, 
are we agreed that, Imprimis, I can tell exactly what 
you are wearing, Secundus, I can learn this by looking, 
Tertius, I have indeed looked, and hence, Quartus, I do 
indeed know, with a sure knowledge, that you are not 
wearing any panties?"

She smiled at him.

"Come, Lady Logic, have you a reply to this?"

"They teach about knowledge in Sunday School," she 
answered, "not only in your lore schools. Your favorite 
saint had a test for certainty, and I may surely say 
what his master said to him.

"Thomas, stretch forth thy finger."


CHAPTER 2


"This too I will do, and very gladly, since I am bid," 
he said, "but we are reaching to other kinds of 
knowledge. You do ask this."

"Thomas, I bid you," she said, "stretch forth thy 
finger."

"Well, what may follow, may follow; remember that some 
things can never be turned back. You can still step 
aside, now or when you choose, but choices are choices. 
I can give no promise but choice, for tomorrow I must 
take a Path you cannot follow."

"Thomas, I understand you," said Ania. The space 
between them was narrow, but it was still between them. 
He faced her across it like a tower. "Touch me, 
Thomas."

"Choose touch, first, with your own hands. Reach out, 
and lay them on my shoulders."

Opening her arms, she reached up and laid first her 
right hand, then her left, on the plain weave of his 
robe, feeling the muscle and bone of him beneath, 
always looking up, into his eyes. As the left hand 
touched him, their heads straightened, their eyes came 
level, as though he was smoothly bending his long legs. 
She looked down, and saw him standing straight, and 
herself free of the soft carpet where her slippers 
still lay. Experimentally she lifted one hand, and felt 
weight pull her softly down, to touch her feet gently 
against the ground, as if standing in the sea. She 
clasped his shoulder again, and floated, level with his 
eyes.

"Whenever you choose, let go my shoulders, and you are 
free of me."

"Thomas," she said again, "touch me."

His hands held her waist, thumbs where it was 
narrowest, palms following the outward flare of her 
hips. Held, holding, she floated.

Silently, after a time, his hands curled around to her 
back and began to stroke her, with no pressure, through 
the silk. Her shoulders rose and seemed to spread, and 
her back felt as supple as a cat's. From the base of 
her spine to her shoulder blades, she could feel his 
each individual fingertip. Reaching around from under 
her arms, he touched each side of her neck, fingers 
moving downward from earlobes to collarbone, over and 
over and over. With a nudge from a forefinger at each 
side, the buttons nearest her collar slid from their 
places, and his fingers had a longer run, ear to the 
next button, before they met silk.

When the next button was released on each side she felt 
the dress slip a little over her breasts, drawn down by 
its feathery weight. She held more tightly to his 
shoulders.

Two more buttons, left and right, and her shoulders 
emerged from the dress, and his hands flowed to and fro 
behind her neck before sliding again down her back, to 
rise again under her arms. Grasping the loosened cloth 
there at the sides, he pulled it left and right across 
her nipples, left and right, left and right, until he 
moved inside the cloth and brought the backs of his 
fingers slowly down across her breasts, so that she 
felt the soft tufts of hair between his joints. 

A ripple ran along her arms as the remaining buttons 
freed themselves, and the dress moved down her, pulling 
itself over her belly, clinging for a moment to her 
buttocks, gathered and drawn like a liquid rope between 
her thighs. She separated her legs to free it, so that 
in a parting moment the dress caught, stretched across 
her knees; then it was free, settling to the floor as 
if laid out for admiration. Her legs drifted upward, 
knees gently bent, until her feet met his legs and slid 
up their sides, coming to rest with her ankles against
his waist.

Buoyed up by magic she rested in the air, naked and 
secure, touching the magic with feet and hands.

Looking down at the parting of her legs she saw her 
hair gleaming with moisture, and breathed deep of her 
own scent, mingling with the smell of the wine from the 
open jug. There was a fainter, ranker smell too, which 
became stronger as he released a catch on his robe and 
returned to holding her waist. 

The robe fell open and she knew it was the smell of 
male lust, from the bush of red hair around the base of 
a raised golden bar, as long as his long hands and as 
thick of two of his thumbs. The tip was darkened to the 
color of old bronze by the blood vessels swollen inside 
it; its opening seemed a slit that vaguely echoed her 
own, starting at the apex and ending somewhere below, 
rather than the round spout she had always imagined.

"Do you know, now, what *I* am wearing?"

"I have no doubt, Thomas. Am I in my turn asked to know 
by touch?"

"I do ask you, Ania, to know me by touch."

She started to lift her right hand from his shoulder, 
to reach down toward that strange, almost glowing part 
of him, but felt herself begin to sink away, downward. 
No; she regained her hold on him, taking the chance now 
to slip her hand past his lapel, gripping his shoulder 
directly, under the robe. 

She thought for a moment, while she moved her left hand 
also to his golden skin, and as the robe fell way 
behind him she bent her knees, pulling herself toward 
him, until the tip of him rested against the crest of 
the mound between her legs, flattening her hair. The 
robe caught where her ankles held his waist until she 
released it, returning them to touch his golden skin, 
just above the pelvis, her toes hooked behind his back.

Pushing and pulling gently against him she rested in 
the air, holding the magic with feet and hands and sex, 
as his hands began again to move.

His touch could now follow great flowing curves along 
her skin, from behind her knees to beneath her thighs, 
his fingertips brushing the base of her mound and 
following the line between her buttocks, caressing the 
sensitive muscle between them, rising up her ribs and 
out along her arms, in again to move over her breasts, 
finger after finger crossing the nipples, then the 
right hand supporting her back while the left palm 
pressed against her belly, round and round, cherishing 
it, in widening and narrowing circles, up sometimes to 
sweep over her breasts and down again, round and round, 
closer to the place where she was pressed against him. 

Then both hands slid along her upper thighs until the 
thumbs were beside her mound, pressing a little and 
pulling aside, and now her lips were open and kissing 
the tip of him, held open by the roundness of it, and 
her own little rod of flesh standing straight in the 
opened space above it.

"A small magic," he murmured, grasping himself to move 
the tip to meet hers, and then his curious opening, 
opened, and she found herself entering him, sucked by 
that tiny mouth, pressed by the solidity around it, 
melting, twisting her body, panting, still holding the 
magic with feet and hands and sex, buoyed up by the 
magic, loud gasps of pleasure forcing from her lungs, 
until a great shudder came and she rested, floating in 
the magic and the afterglow, pressing her head in the 
hollow of his neck and shoulder.


CHAPTER 3


"Wizards are supposed to have great long beards," she 
said, her eyes an inch from his short, square one. "In 
all the story books they have great long beards."

He stroked her back fondly. "How many wizards at this 
convention have you seen with great long beards?" he 
asked her.

"Hardly any," she admitted, "but that's not the point. 
Wizards are *supposed* to have great long beards."

"Very impractical, in this city, where all the best 
restaurants specialize in great bowls of soup. But the 
choice of a long beard is open, of course, and to a 
wizard an open choice is an easy tool."

She watched dreamily as his neat beard grew longer, 
slipping like a wild red rope into the space between 
them.

"That's better," she said. "Hey, that tickles."

"That's another problem, when you're reading in bed," 
he said, "or if you roll over at night with it trapped 
under your elbow. You see why I don't make a habit of 
it."

"Hey, that *really* tickles!" She looked down suddenly, 
to where two strands of the beard were teasing away the 
softness of her nipples. "How do you *do* that? No, 
don't stop." She straightened her arms for a clearer 
view, and watched fascinated as the beard used the open 
space to form a russet cloud against her, in which 
waves moved up her skin like the spiral stripes up a 
barber pole, vanishing yet endless. "Can you feel what 
you do with it, like with your fingers? Like with...?" 
giving a little wriggle where he was still stiff 
against her.

"Not exactly, but with the link between us 
strengthening I can feel something of what *you* feel, 
which guides me well enough."

"It guides you *wonderfully*," she said, her sensations 
leaping up like flames in a sudden wind at the idea 
that the wizard knew them with her. "Can you describe 
what I feel? Pass a test on it?"

"You would remember it as though I told you what to 
feel, and there would be truth there; describing 
feeling always changes it, for feelings are not words. 
But it is a wisdom tool to describe it for yourself. 
Ania, bright angel, what do you feel?"

"I feel fond of you," she said promptly. "You have nice 
eyes."

"Describing emotions is close to describing words," he 
said, "with words. Only a great sage learns wisdom that 
way. Most who try it end up as Literature professors, 
and vanish up their own... never mind. And describing 
my eyes is vain, when they can change as easily as my 
beard, or your friend down there who rose to greet 
you." She giggled, and blew a kiss to return the 
greeting. "The acyclic tantra is to describe your 
direct feelings, your bodily feelings. Do you want to 
try that?"

"How can I describe anything while you tickle me so?"

"Don't just be tickled; feel tickled. What is the 
feeling?"

"It's all down the front of me, like pain, but it's not 
pain."

"How is it different?"

"I don't know... yes, I do, pain always feels under the 
skin, this is like a hundred points of pain dancing 
just outside, not coming in, but my muscles feel as if 
they must move, to fight pain, more and more ready to 
move, but I don't move, do I, Thomas? I don't think 
someone running *could* be tickled, though they could 
itch. I don't move, my hands are holding the muscles of 
your shoulders, I can feel the firmness of them, and my 
feet can feel your waist, a bit softer and looser, I'm 
holding you there too, and down there I can feel, of 
course, that's *John* Thomas... just the end of him, 
pressing a little where the feeling is like burning 
cold ice, only soft, and melting, and trying to 
dissolve him, I want to *hold* you there too. 

"Oh, now I can feel my own hair on my back, my hair 
isn't that long, Thomas, ohh, magic... and it's 
stroking me like your hands, not tickling, smooth, in 
front I'm fire and behind I'm the sand dunes, and I 
feel your long fingers against my eyelids, your hand 
smells of me, your other hand is with John Thomas, a 
finger just under him, he's nibbling at me again, like 
a fish, and your finger feels like bubbles bursting in 
me, and it is just inside me like a bubble that can't 
burst, and it's moving and I'm squeezing and it won't 
burst, and I have... to stop... talking..."

"Thomas, I have not kissed you," she said dreamily. She 
pulled towards him, and began to lick his lips. His 
mouth opened as it touched hers, and she moved the tip 
of her tongue along his gums, as his tongue slid over 
hers and curled up to the roof of her mouth, dabbing 
delicately behind her front teeth and tasting the shape 
of her, back near to the throat. Then it curled flat 
around her own tongue, holding it in place as their 
mouths opened wider.

He began to hum. An old melody from somewhere the tall 
ships traded, that all knew and none named, it filled 
her mouth and echoed in her throat, her own voicebox 
sounding with his music, the vibration filling her. 
Slowly she joined the music with her own breath, and 
slowly he quieted his own, until she was singing his 
throat, controlling a bass resonance that felt strange 
and natural at once. The music passed between them, 
sometimes driven by one, sometimes by both, winding 
through their bodies like the murmur of the sea.

His tongue drifted out of her, and as their mouths 
separated he turned upward to lick her eyelids, then as 
she moved upward with the slight pressure of his hands 
beneath her he was licking the hollow of her throat, 
his beard moving against her chest. His tongue moved 
downward, no, she had moved upward, his tongue coiled 
around a nipple, his teeth pulled at it, while the palm 
of his hand passed around, around on the other, or 
sometimes she felt his separated fingers move, one, 
two, three, four across it before the rubbing palm, 
slippery from its time between her legs, resumed its 
slow circling. For a still moment she was held between 
finger and thumb on her left, between teeth on her 
right, teased by a finger and by a tongue.

Downward, as his tongue caressed her belly and his 
hands the back of her thighs, until she could look down 
and see the red hair of his beard mingle with the black 
of her mound, and feel that tongue circling, flicking 
at the sides and her stub of flesh, tunneling into her, 
sipping at the flowing juice of her, while his fingers 
worked behind, and the silky hair of his armpits was 
against her knees. 

Her body felt about to dissolve when she pushed away 
from him, pulled down, so that his tongue made an 
undeviating trail up, past her navel with a little 
flick inside, between her breasts, to her throat, and 
she was balanced, sitting on the hardness of him like a 
rail, her legs back beside his waist. Gradually she 
pushed backwards, sliding to the end and squirming 
gently against it, until she was around the bronze tip.

She looked down at that golden bar holding them apart, 
pressed against her open lips, and pulled tightly with 
her legs against his waist. As her calf muscles pulled, 
harder and harder, the pressure into her became 
intense, but she hardly moved.

"Help me," she said. "Force a way."

"This is difficult," he said, "with so much desire for 
you holding that shape firm, but... watch." He changed 
under her eyes, the blunt bar becoming a tapered cone, 
the swollen tip no wider than her finger. She pulled 
again gently, and he was a thumb's length inside. She 
pushed herself back, saw him slippery with her juice, 
pulled with a great jerk and had him half inside her, 
stretched tight as a needlework canvas, hurting but 
holding the pain as tight as she held him. Back again, 
the wet of her now shining on half his length. 

Another pull, further, tighter. She moved into a rhythm 
of forward and back, never now all the way out, each 
time a little further in, and now his hands behind her 
were strengthening each pull, and at last her mound 
slammed into his, the golden bar invisible, and she 
rested against him, red hair tangling with black.

Impossibly tight, impossibly full, she felt his full 
thickness come back, deep within her. Wrapped around 
him, pressed against him, holding him inside her, with 
a shout that came from the bottom of her spine and 
uncoiled through her lungs to a sound that left her 
throat raw and her ears ringing, she felt every muscle 
in her body go as fuel to an exploding flame.

"Ania, what do you feel?"

"I feel soft. I feel you against me, and sweat running 
down the edge of where I'm against your chest." She 
stirred her hips against him. "I feel John Thomas 
inside me."

"*How* do you feel him inside you?"

"Just the way I feel your shoulders, in my hands. No, 
wait." She stirred again, slid a little back from him, 
and pulled herself back against his groin. "At the 
mouth I feel you, just like that, through the skin. 
That hair's much stiffer than your beard, do you choose 
it that way? But inside it's not like that. How *do* I 
feel you? Can you go very thin just at the entrance, 
but stay thick inside, so I can concentrate? Yes, I can 
feel you're in there, but it's not through the skin, 
it's in the muscles, in whatever stretches, like when 
I'm carrying a weight, I know it inside my arms as well 
as by my fingers. Thicken out again... yes, even just 
behind the entrance, it's the stretching I feel. Like 
something big in my throat, but it's a good feeling. As 
though I was hollow before, and now I'm solid." 

She twisted against him. "The muscles get tighter, just 
by my noticing them, and having something solid to 
tighten on is like the good feeling in my jaw of biting 
solid bread, teeth don't feel, either, do they, I'd 
never thought of that, only the goodness spreads 
wider, my hips feel right, they're balanced around you. 
But how does it feel from the inside, to you?"

"When I first go hard," he said, "I feel my skin 
stretched like a pig on tiptoe, unsafe, vulnerable, 
until John Thomas, you called him? Until he is held and 
supported as you hold him now, like being safe on four 
legs.

You make my body complete. All along him, the pressure 
of you balances the tension from inside, he's your 
`bubble that can't burst'. The skin on most of him 
doesn't feel the touch nearly as much as that pressure, 
that holding you give him. Around the tip he does feel 
through the skin, and when you wriggle your muscles 
like that..."

"I didn't know I could do that until you made me feel 
them."

"...or slide along me, it is like having my tongue in 
bitter honey."

"Can you show me how it feels? You said there is a 
link... ohh, when I do this, you... and when I squeeze 
and, my muscles won't stay still, I can feel it both 
ways, and Thomas, you are holding tight, holding your 
own muscles, it's *hurting* you, what are you doing?"

"When you came in, wondering if a wizard could see 
through cotton, you had no thought of having a child."

"I might have a baby, mightn't I?"

"Ania, you would have a baby. Your body is at its most 
ready, and the seed you have made is close to your 
womb." He pushed gently against her, to slide her off, 
but she held him tightly with her legs.

"Wait a little like this, if you can?"

"I can wait, if you hold very still."

She settled against his chest, and against his groin. 
Thin muscular tremors ran through both of them, both 
holding still against a force that pushed towards wild 
movement.

"Thomas, if I have a child, will he be a wizard? Can 
you see the future?"

"I can see some futures. An open choice is a powerful 
tool." He paused for a long moment, his body trembling 
like a sheepdog waiting for a word of command. "Healthy 
and a wizard. She will be a very powerful wizard."

"She? Will she be beautiful? That is important, for a 
woman."

"She will be beautiful when she chooses. As you are 
beautiful."

"You are teasing me... no, I don't think you do that, 
do you? Will she be happy?"

"That depends on her own choices. Her existence depends 
on our choice; on yours, for I will abide by yours. I 
cannot be with you at her birth, but if you want her, 
she is yours."

She pressed her forehead into his neck, wondering.

"The choice is now," he said, "for strong magic like 
hers can hold a child in the womb, long before she is a 
person. Healcraft cannot eject her before her time, 
only hurt her."

"How can I keep her out, then? Is that fair to her?"

"You have joined me to your body, and I have learned 
much of it. May I speak of what I know?" She nodded 
against him.

"You are nineteen years old. You have denied birth 
to... forty-seven of your seed, by remaining virgin. 
Once, when you were sixteen, you would have had twins. 
There is no justice to them, no injustice. The choice 
is free."

"I am filled with you," she said, "I want to overflow 
with you. I want my belly round with her, I want to 
feel her kicking at me, I want her born and sucking at 
me. I want our child."

He turned and walked toward the chaise lounge, twisting 
himself inside her with each step he took. At the head 
of it he leaned forward and placed her buttocks there. 
A little weight returned to her. Grasping her wrists he 
lifted her hands at last from his shoulders, and 
lowered her gently through the increasing downward 
pull, until she rested with her head looking up at him, 
her thighs still holding him. He raised her ankles 
against his shoulders. As he bent forward to touch her 
breasts, she found her bottom curled into his thighs, 
her hips upward around his now vertical flesh.

"I am the earth," she whispered, "you are the seed, the 
plough, the gardener, planting me, what are you?"

He began a steady vertical movement, almost out of her 
and in again, which carried his hands up and down her 
slippery chest, her small breasts moving with deeper 
and deeper breaths and the passage of his fingers, and 
her hips twisting and pushing, the muscles inside her 
jerking and squeezing and tightening wildly as he came 
down, came down, came down.

"You are the rain, that turns the earth liquid, you are 
the thunderstorm, you are the l i g h t ning, you are 
the l i g h t ning, you are the l i g h t ning, you are 
the l i g h t ning,... " the rhythm peaked as her legs 
went rigid against his ribs and he stood over her, 
coming in pulses that spent their momentum deep inside 
her, welling up around him like a pale grey flood, 
brimming over, but unspilled.

Slowly, he pulled out from her, a little of his liquid 
draining back off the length of him, rejoining the pool 
that receded into that narrowing opening as he softened 
and slid from her once distended grasp. Moving to her 
side he eased her along the chaise lounge until her 
hips were still upward, on a pillow, but her legs were 
now held up by its head. He raised her back gently, sat 
down, and laid her head on his lap.

"Lie here a little, if you want to help my seed to join 
yours, though it is active stuff; already searching for 
your womb. A little would be lost if you stood up, but 
the child would still be almost certain."

"I do not think I know how to stand up. I am warm 
butter, I am as soft as... why, as soft as John 
Thomas." She turned her head toward his belly. "I want 
to kiss him. How is he so silky smooth? Why do *these* 
lips notice that, I didn't feel it before." She pushed 
at him with a lazy tongue. "A drop there, that came too 
late. I thought it would taste stronger, being so 
strong, making babies. Making babies. I'm going to have 
a baby. Thomas, I'm going to have a baby."

He lay his hand on her belly. "Already my seed is 
swimming upwards.

At? Yes, at midnight, our seed will join. From 
midnight, you are her mother. Is it well?"

"Thomas," she said, "it is very well."


CHAPTER 4


"Birgit," said the wizard, "perhaps you should come in 
here now."

The thin connecting door to the next room slowly 
opened, to reveal a tall young woman in the same green 
uniform that Ania had worn. Her breathing was uneven, 
and she still held the small brush she had held ready 
for sweeping with, if found in the empty room. She 
looked in at the silk dress on the floor, and at Ania 
asleep with a mouthful of naked wizard. Her coppery 
face darkened.

"Checking out tomorrow, sir?" she said coldly. "I hope 
you have found the service satisfactory."

"You are angry."

"You have taken Ania's cherry, and you're off tomorrow 
without a care.

What's she going to do? If there's really a baby 
coming?"

"Ania has taken my seed, by her own will."

"Didn't enjoy it, did you? Just an act of charity from 
a visiting sperm donor?"

"I took great pleasure in it, Birgit, as did you. Show 
me the brush you are holding."

She held it out, unwilling, and the handle glistened 
wet. He breathed in, and smiled at the scent of her.

"Hearing her, excited like that... That's not the 
point! You got her all worked up, and gave her all that 
stuff about choice, and she decided in a hurry like she 
always does. Now she's pregnant all right, don't 
interrupt me, you pedantic old goat, from midnight 
she's pregnant and nobody to care about her."

"You do not care about her?"

"Of course I care about her. *I* care about Ania more 
than anything, and *you* have just wrecked her life. My 
best friend, just because you couldn't stick to reading 
this." She picked up The Journal of Thaumaturgical 
Topology and threw it behind him with a sound of 
tearing paper. "Bothers you when I do that? More than 
what's going to happen to her?"

"She is your good friend. And she is beautiful."

"Of course she is, though she never saw it, and the 
damn bellboys are too dumb to see it. They only care 
about big tits like I have. But I always knew a man 
would see it, some merchant, maybe, and she'd be off 
with him to raise babies and run a shop selling wool 
and linen. I never did anything to spoil that. You've 
spoiled it, haven't you, just for an evening's `great 
pleasure in it'. And I never even told her how I wanted 
to touch her breasts."

"Then why," asked a dreamy voice, "don't you touch them 
now?" Ania looked up at her with a peaceful smile. 
"Birgit, I'm going to have a baby."

"I know you are, you little and who is going to look 
after you? When Madame Chorny dumps you in the street?"

"Ania, I think we should offer our visitor a little 
wine." He reached for the jug. "Shall I pour?" She 
giggled, and then held very still as he filled her 
navel until the wine rose like a round, polished ruby 
above her skin.

"That tickles," she said, and a drop escaped to flow 
down her sweat-soaked side. "Birgit, I can't move until 
you drink it."

Slowly, Birgit knelt beside her, and brought her lips 
to the surface of the wine. She gently sucked the top 
of it into her mouth, and with two long movements 
licked Ania's belly, leaving a wine-red heart on her 
coffee-cream flesh. She mouthed each nipple, holding it 
between her lips in silence until she drew them closed 
across it, and then moved her face to Ania's for an 
endless kiss, while the wizard stroked her hair. 
Eventually, she pulled away.

"Oh Ania, Ania, what is to become of you? He is going 
off to do whatever it is he does, and you cannot stay 
long in our cubicle upstairs. I cannot take care of you 
in this."

"Would you care for her," asked the wizard, "if you had 
a house?"

"Of course I... hey, what's the idea? One of those 
little houses for kept women, over beyond Temple Hill? 
She's your little mistress, when you care to come by, 
and I'm her maid? We visit with the other little pets, 
and keep out of the way when their fat-bellied friends 
come calling? I've had offers of *that* more than once 
in this hotel, and I'd rather sweep floors for ever."

"Your imagination paints vivid pictures, Birgit, but I 
would never think of you or her in that one. There is a 
picture, though, that you had her in already. On Bell 
Street, I think, the family Warend is trying to sell a 
linen and wool shop."

"On Bell Street? That must be, they can't be selling 
*that* place, it's..."

"They have had a shipwreck, and they must make choices. 
This choice is yours. Do you want that shop?"

"But surely that would cost, oh, I don't know, you 
can't be giving *that* just for getting into Ania's 
pants."

"I wasn't wearing any."

"And I am not giving anything for that. It was a gift 
between us. Such a shop would satisfy you as lore 
satisfies me, you would serve the people of this city, 
and you could pay me such return as seems reasonable to 
your merchant-family soul no, I'm not spying on your 
mind, you walk like a merchant's daughter, allow me the 
perceptions of the ordinary man. I expect your family 
was destroyed by the sheeprot plague of ten years ago, 
so many wool merchants were. I am suggesting this 
because you belong in that shop."

"Like John Thomas belonged in me," said Ania dreamily.

"Ania! You will have to think of other things, soon 
enough. Sir, let us be serious. You are talking about a 
great deal of money."

"Money is not the most serious subject, to a wizard, 
except for the dangers in being careless with it. You 
can wreck the commerce of a whole city by turning lead 
into gold. There is no such problem in buying a shop 
with a cargo of what you are wearing."

"I am wearing... oh. Silk."

"You are wearing rather more than Ania was," said the 
wizard approvingly. "I think that is wise, with your 
build. But you will find it is all silk; only a trained 
eye can see the line at your hips. I rather fancy 
myself with textiles."

"You rather fancy yourself, altogether," said Birgit. 
"Trained eye!" She rocked back on her heels and started 
to laugh. "I think I like you, after all. You do seem 
to think of yourself as God the Father, but you did ask 
first, and Ania got more of a bang out it than the 
Virgin Mary. Very well. The shop in Bell Street. We 
will pay you eight per cent per annum, interest, paying 
off the principal as we can."

"And whenever you are in the city," said Ania, "unless 
you prefer This Great Hotel, a bed for the night."

"*A* bed for the night?" said Birgit. "Well, 
accommodation is a fair item of trade, I suppose. It is 
then no part if the contract if we decide, maybe to 
save on sheets, to give you."

", *our* bed for the night," said Ania. She sat up and 
leaned against the wizard, holding her legs carefully 
together. "Good, I don't seem to be leaking. Oh, except 
there," as the last few drops of wine rolled down to 
join the other liquids that had matted her hair to a 
flat, fragrant mass. "That doesn't matter."

"You really do want a baby?" Birgit asked her, "and you 
want..."

"To keep a shop? And live with you? John Thomas is 
wonderful," she reached across and held him, stroking 
gently with her thumb as she continued talking, "but I 
couldn't live comfortably with anybody but you. A big, 
hard, wise person like this is more of a teacher."

"Hard," said Birgit, prodding him in the belly, "huh. I 
never knew a man that was hard there if he didn't get 
the chance to stiffen his muscles first, and I never 
knew a man that didn't do that. Thought so," she said, 
prodding him again. "Stiff as a board, now. Men!"

"Well, I like him, there too, and the best way to feel 
it is with your own tummy," said Ania, "but it's not 
really such an interesting body as yours. I always 
thought your breasts were the shape breasts are 
supposed to be, I didn't feel I *had* breasts at all, 
really, until... anyway, I do now, but I still think 
yours are nicer. Come and sit here." She made a space 
between herself and the wizard.

Birgit sat down between them, with Ania's small right 
arm around her, under the ribs. "I don't think I can 
quite reach that one," said Ania, straining around to 
touch the nipple, "maybe you'd better lie down," and 
pulled her sideways to lie across her lap, her head 
pillowed by the end of the chaise lounge. Trying to 
wriggle into a more comfortable position, she found her 
knees across the wizard's lap.

"They're firm, your breasts, aren't they?" said Ania, 
running her hands smoothly over them. "I always thought 
they would be, not like Madame Chorny's. Or are they 
just being held firmly? It's not really fair, you 
wearing all these clothes when we're not." She pulled 
the silk dress up over Birgit's knees, with a slippery 
sound as they dragged against the wizard's legs. "Raise 
your hips a little," and gathered it up around the 
waist.

"This morning I put on respectable white cotton 
drawers," said Birgit, "not black lace nothing-very-
much."

"With your red-brown skin," said the wizard, "I thought 
black would look nice."

"And you were expecting to look, of course."

"And it does look nice, doesn't it?" said Ania, "Upsy-
daisy," and lifted Birgit's back to slip the dress up 
to her shoulders. "Peel it off, so it won't get 
crumpled. Now, what else are you wearing?" The breasts 
were held by a fine web of silk, exactly shaped to her, 
gossamer thin where it reached behind her, changing 
gradually from a red gauze invisible against her skin 
to fine firm silken cloth over the nipples, as black as 
the pupils of her eyes.

Birgit looked down at it, and watched Ania's slim 
fingers rub against the silk. "You do fancy yourself in 
textiles, don't you?" she said. "How does this thing 
undo? If I know men... " She fumbled for a moment 
between her breasts. "At the front. Of course." She 
freed the fastening, but the web still cupped each 
breast, pulling them slightly outward. Ania peeled it 
off the one nearest her own breasts, and the end 
slipped down into her lap.

"Now I can feel one of each. This one's a little softer 
now, even with the silk still on, because it's not 
being pulled. But even this one, without anything, 
stays so round, and so strong."

"They droop a bit when I'm standing," said Birgit, "as 
Mr. Textile here implied. He obviously knows tits like 
he knows cloth. No, don't stop doing that." Ania's hand 
went back to running over belly and breasts, as her own 
right hand moved behind Ania's back and up and down the 
spine. "And no wizards sitting idle, either."

He began to slide his right hand from her ankle to her 
thigh, and cupped his left with a soft pressure over 
the black silk between her legs. She pushed against his 
hand, rubbing her shoulder blades against Ania's lap, 
and her breath came faster. She lay there contented, 
her eyes shut, while four hands moved over her body.

"What's at the back of my knee? John Thomas standing 
tall again?" She tautened her leg muscles to trap the 
end of him for a moment. "You be careful with that 
thing. Don't think every woman just wants a baby."

"Your latest seed passed your womb five days ago," he 
said, "it is three weeks since you bled. You cannot 
start a child before Michaelmas."

"And I'm not planning to start one then." She moved her 
legs up his lap, to trap him between her knees with a 
rolling motion. "If you just let it into the air, how 
high does it go?"

"That depends on how I am aroused. With you here, and 
Ania beside me, doing that to you, and if you do *that 
with your knees much longer, it will reach the ceiling 
with no magical help." He slipped a finger under the 
black lace, and began to run it up and down, just 
inside her. "Your own arousal makes sure of mine."

"Feeling mine with your fancy magic? Peeping Thomas?"

"I see it in the swelling of your lips and nipples, I 
smell it in the juice you are pouring over my fingers, 
I feel it in the firmness of you in here," he reached a 
second finger under the lace, and tweaked the flesh 
between her lips, "this is much older than magic."

"Keep doing that. Keep doing it." She reached down and 
unfastened the lace at her hip. "I knew it would open 
that way... Put your fingers inside me. Inside."

Ania reached with her left hand to hold the wizard's 
left. Laying her forefinger along his, she pushed both 
into Birgit, rubbing against each other flesh around 
them. Her knuckles, where her other fingers wrapped 
around his larger hand, kneaded and pressed above the 
opening. Her left hand still moved over throat, 
breasts, and belly; his right, from ankle to thigh. 
Birgit's legs began to move jerkily.

"Birgit, I don't think we should treat John Thomas like 
that. He likes to be held. Grasped and supported, not 
banged by your knees. I want to put him in here," and 
she pulled her forefinger a little apart from the 
wizard's, stretching Birgit's opening from inside. A 
spasm of its muscles pulled them back together, 
squeezed bone against bone. "Turn over, Birgit."

Birgit rolled over towards them, raising herself from 
the space between their laps and shifting onto his 
legs. Ania spread her open with her right hand, grasped 
the trembling stiffness of the wizard with the other, 
and brought them together. 

Once the tip was inside, her left hand pulled behind 
Birgit's legs, so that the rolling finished with a 
smooth slide onto him and Birgit's head on her own lap, 
which Birgit pushed apart, bringing her mouth to Ania's 
mound. Joined through Birgit and in a kiss, gold hands 
meeting pale pale brown as they roved across her 
coppery back or reached between her legs to hold her 
and to stroke her, six hips jerking together, Ania and 
the wizard felt her body's release and subsided, 
gasping, with her.

"I hope you were right about Michaelmas," she said, 
sitting in a cuddle between them. "I have a shop to 
organize, and this one to look after." She patted 
Ania's stomach.

"Oh, Birgit, I'm going to have a baby. A wizardly 
baby."

"I know, sweeting. And what a magic toddler can do to a 
well-run household, I can't wait to find out. I just 
hope *I'm* not going to have one for a while."

"You need not fear my seed. I interrupted time for it." 
He slipped two golden fingers inside her, and pulled 
out a thick, uneven, pearly-grey thread. "It is all 
here, and cannot wake except where it can make a child. 
If ever you want my baby, use it when your body is 
fertile. Put it back inside you and give your body 
pleasure. I am sure Ania will help. It will turn again 
to liquid, and find your own seed."

"Oh Birgit, sometime... I want to put his child in you, 
I want to suck your milk, I want a little brother for 
my own baby. Please, Birgit?"

"Sometime, Ania. When you're ready to run the shop for 
a while.

But how can we recognize a fertile time?"

"See," said the wizard, putting the thread against Ania 
where the well-sucked cleft still stood a little open, 
"Ania has a fertile seed, not yet touched." The thread 
twitched, like a cat dreaming in its sleep. He moved it 
to Birgit; even with an end inside her, it lay still.

"As I told you, you cannot make a child now. When your 
body is ready, this will know."

"Ania said a brother. Can you tell?"

"No. I can tell only at the moment of choice, and this 
choice is not yet. With Ania, I knew the time, and who 
will be close by when my seed meets hers, in here." He 
placed his hand over her belly, and Birgit put hers 
over his.

"You will both be close by," said Ania, "it is close to 
midnight now. Did you know she would be here?"

"I felt her love and her anger around you, soon after 
you came in."

"You knew she would join us like this?"

"I could sense what would flow from your choice. If it 
had meant your abandonment on the streets, do you think 
*I* could have chosen to do what we did?"

"Of course not," said Birgit. "You are the Lord of the 
Good Guys, aren't you? That's in the past, now, the 
present is that Ania is just about to conceive. How are 
we going to celebrate?"

"What do you mean?" said Ania.

"Well, I think we should mark the moment. Can you tell 
us exactly when it happens?"

"The feelings of the seeds are tiny, but intense at 
that moment. I can pass them through all of us."

"Well, there's an idea I want to try: you lean well 
back. Ania, get on his lap, no, right against his 
slightly soft stomach, lean right back. That's nice, 
John Thomas is sitting up between your legs." She 
reached out a hand to cradle the hairy mass just 
beneath.

"Good little boy, sit up straight."

"I can't get him in, at this angle."

"You're not supposed to. Raise your right leg a bit." 
Birgit climbed on to the wizard's knees, slipped her 
own left leg under it, and passed her right over Ania's 
left, around behind him. Ania felt gravity lessen its 
hold on her a little, as the wizard reduced the strain 
on his lap.

"Now, he's nicely between us, you see?" Birgit pulled 
open her mound to wrap the lips around one side of him, 
then did the same for Ania's on the other. "He's 
wrapped in flesh, now, isn't he?" she said as she 
pressed their bodies together. "Not all parched and 
stretched and lonely?"

"Birgit," said the wizard, "Your mind is as fertile as 
Ania's body. John Thomas feels cherished."

Good, put your magic hands around her there, I'm sure 
it will be good for her milk when the need comes. Oh, 
you'll have big tits then, Ania, I can see it. And hold 
up mine with *your* hands, yes, go on doing that. Try 
nibbling on his ear, *that* made John Thomas twitch. 
Look at the darling tip of him, nestling between us and 
barely peeking out! Makes me feel quite sentimental. 
Now, I'll put my hands around your waist, where it's 
all going to happen, and I'll stop talking, so we can 
feel it."

They moved gently against each other. The friction of 
their skins pulled on the tension they felt, as the 
distance narrowed between invisible things that yearned 
for each other so entirely that the ordinary love and 
lust of a grown body seemed like casual liking. Ania 
moaned with pleasure, feeling the two lovers outside 
her body, the two longings inside it, closer and 
closer, groins pressed close and grinding each other 
and the flesh between them, until the seeds met and 
hips thrust against each other like fighting rams, 
juices washing over a member that thrummed with the 
flow of its own.

"I can *feel* I'm pregnant now," said Ania, when they 
were able to speak again. "He was quite right, it was 
midnight."

"Oh, he's always right," said Birgit, "about 
everything. Look."

She pointed upwards. "He did hit the ceiling."

END

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. You only have one body per lifetime,
so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 32